


The Master of His Fate

by eldritcher



Series: The Journal of Maglor [9]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 05:03:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4006843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Elros has a crush, and writes odious love paeans to the crush.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Master of His Fate

It all began one summer day, when I had returned to the house after a meandering inspection of my warriors. Even as a lad, I had enjoyed social interactions. Though I did not get to meet lords and kings now, the barracks were quite sufficient for my conversational needs. After a pleasant time spent in my men’s company, I had walked to the dining chamber to warm myself by the fire there, for I was always easily chilled, even in hot weather. I came upon the strangest sight I had ever seen. 

My brother and Elrond were seated at the table, facing each other. Perched on the fine oakwood table was Elros, his eyes dreamy and his fingers tapping the surface of the table in accordance with music that only he could hear.

“Is he handsome?” Macalaurë was asking with ill-concealed curiosity.

“Yes, Ada,” Elros sighed. “He is very, very handsome.”

“Is he married?” Elrond asked worriedly. “That wouldn’t do, you know.”

“Bah!” Elros sniffed in disdain. “He is unmarried and there are no claims. Do quite fretting, Elrond! It is perfect.”

“Does he like you?” Macalaurë asked again.

“He does.” Elros even managed to produce a convincing blush. Macalaurë and Elrond exchanged gleeful looks over his bowed head and burst into most undignified cackling.

 

If I had valued my health over my curiosity, I would have beat a hasty retreat and left them to whatever they were conspiring. Their schemes, as a rule, never bode well for me. But the damn itch of curiosity made me clear my throat to alert them to my presence.

“Ah!” Macalaurë looked up at me with one of those incredible smiles that never failed to set my heart on fire. 

“Come in,” Elrond called out. “We were talking about Elros’s love.”

I should have escaped when I had had the chance, I rued, as Macalaurë began telling me excitedly about his foster-son’s love.

“I don’t approve of male paramours.” I felt compelled to say that. Three incredulous faces stared at me in unison and I hastily continued, “You will one day need to sire heirs.”

“But you didn’t!” Elrond exclaimed, frowning in confusion.

Macalaurë was suppressing a grin with great difficulty. Elros was glaring at me with no little anger. 

“I had six brothers to take upon that onerous task,” I retorted.

“And I have Elrond,” Elros grinned. “Would you mind seeing to the continuation of our line, Elrond?”

“Just bribe me well,” Elrond winked at his brother.

“You are too young. You haven’t seen women yet. I speak of proper ladies of the court. Perhaps you would like their company better,” I sermonized. 

“Yes,” Macalaurë cut in, his features composed into nonchalance. “My brother speaks from experience. He has known and courted more than one lady of our grandfather’s court. Shall I enlighten them, Russandol?”

Only my brother could render me into helpless chagrin with but a few choice words. I shook my head warningly and strode out of the chamber. A headache dulled my senses. It never ended well for me when I was at odds with Macalaurë, for he was as crafty as a den of foxes when he wished to be. 

Sighing, I let myself into his chamber and made for the bed. I would wheedle out the identity of Elros’s object of infatuation and put an end to it. A careful word would do the trick. Elros would sulk for a few weeks; but it was for his welfare and I did not mind. Macalaurë would be none the wiser and the domestic harmony would be unaffected. 

 

 

“Why didn’t you light the fire?” Macalaurë entered the chamber and hurried over to the fireplace. 

“It is summer,” I said. 

“It is summer and you are shivering,” he said impatiently. “How many times must we argue on that?”

“Come and warm me,” I said simply. 

“Far be it from me to even dream of resisting you,” he muttered as he built up and banked the fire. I snorted at the dripping sarcasm honeying his words. The only way to handle his barbs was to simply overlook them. 

“Why did you discourage the poor child?” He was covering me with the blanket and preparing to leave.

I cracked my eyes open and said indulgently, “Join me and I shall tell you.” 

“I am not depraved yet to lounge about at midday,” he said crisply. “I am going to help the boy write a paean to his love.”

I spluttered and lifted my head onto my elbows, staring disbelievingly at the infuriating, smug features of my brother. He laughed and came to my side.

Ruffling my hair patronizingly, he asked, “Do you believe me incapable of writing one?”

“No,” I said truthfully. “I have seen you composing countless odes for Artanis.” 

“The ungrateful woman,” he said with deep, lingering affection. He loved her yet. It made me incredibly jealous at times. But I tried my level best not to let him know that. “I wager that her Sinda has not even composed a single love poem for her.”

“Maybe that is the reason why she married him,” I suggested. “She must have been sick of your odes.”

“You sound almost jealous.” He raised his eyebrows knowingly. The gesture was so endearingly Macalaurë that I had to sigh and lift my hand hopefully, my eyes imploring him to join me. 

It was ironic. I used to fear intimacy. No, I did not fear it. But earlier, I had sought it only when driven by that dark part of me which threatened to erode reason and conscience. Now, at time I must accept as the twilight of my life, I craved it. There was no depth which I would not stoop to gain intimacy with him. 

“I must go and help the boy, Russandol,” he said firmly, though softening the blow with one of his rare genuine smiles.

Perhaps it was because we had spoken about Artanis. I felt really provoked by his superior manner and sat up in bed, scowling as effectively as I could manage. 

“I have noticed that you frequently refuse to indulge in these activities with me ever since the summer began.” It was true. And he had said it was because he feared to harm my deteriorating health. 

“You know why-” he began in that supremely patient tone solely reserved for those of lesser understanding. 

“You are always busy with countless number of irrelevant, trivial things that once you were never bothered by,” I accused him.

“Nonsense. I do them so that your burdens are lighter!” he exclaimed, his eyes shining in fervent passion as my father’s once had shone.

“You talk about Artanis as if you are still her lover!” I continued my tirade. I knew I should stop. His sarcasm outweighed mine and I had no wish to hear his barbs. If he started about Findekáno...

“Artanis!” he stood stunned for a long moment. “Eru! Russandol, once she had my love and desire. If I had craved more, I could have asked her hand in marriage.”

“I know everything,” I pressed on. “You slept with your wife even after you had me. I understand,” I hurried on before he could break in, “I really do. I cannot provide you heirs!”

“Don’t carry on so!” he shouted, his eyes wild and aflame with fury. 

“Perhaps you don’t desire me. My body is not as welcoming as it once was. Alas, time and its passage; even the most skilled whore loses charm. Was I ever anything more?” I finished bitterly, without realizing the words had left my mouth. 

We stared at each other in shock. The pain in his dark black eyes made me desperately wish that I would be swallowed whole by the earth then and there. He never cried. He was always stronger than me. The only time I had seen him cry, it had been during the soul-harrowing conversation I had with him before Nírnaeth Arnoediad. He seemed to know what I was thinking of, for he brought a long, impossibly lean, perfectly shaped hand to his eyes, covering his vision as if imploring me to disappear from his sight immediately and never return. 

“I...” 

My voice broke on the single syllable and I shook my head exhaustedly. The chamber was too hot and I was sweating. But I felt immeasurably cold, as if I would never know warmth again.

Without uttering a single word, he turned on his heel and left the chamber, the door closing sharply behind him. I covered my face with my lonely palm and fell back on the sheets, despair eating me inside-out. He had done me a great kindness in not retaliating, I reflected hopelessly. If he had spoken, it would have broken me apart more than mad fathers or stupid Valar ever could. 

I remained in that state of half-consciousness until a gentle knock sounded. I looked up to see Elrond enter, his sensitive face drawn in worry. My own features must have held such terrible emotion, for he halted and gasped. 

“I am well,” I assured him dully. “It is the heat.”

“It is rather warm here,” he said cautiously, still raking his intent gaze over my hunched form. “Ada sent me to fetch you for supper.”

“I shall do without,” I said disinterestedly. Supper was the last thing I had on my mind right then.

“Very well,” he said simply, knowing better than to compel me. 

“Elrond,” I called after him as he made to close the door shut.

“Yes, my lord?” he asked patiently. The patience must have been born out of the time he spent with his excitable brother.

“Ask him-”, I began. Then I bit off my sentence. That interesting folly called pride reared its ugly, supercilious head in me. 

“Yes?” he prompted me.

“Ask him to attend to the correspondence,” I said composedly. 

His eyebrows shot up involuntarily before he nodded and left, the thud of the door also killing a hopeful voice in my heart.

He should come to me, I thought petulantly. After all, I had reasons for my insecurity. He was extremely handsome and sane. I was neither. He had proved in the past that he could woo, wed and please. I determinedly refused to think of his face when he had sung the ode for Artanis at a feast. It would also not do to contemplate the apparent ease with which he had cut off all ties between us when he had ruled the land between the rivers Gelion. In the same period, I had nearly driven myself into a grave pining for him.

It all boiled down to one thing; he was everything he was, with or without me. I was nothing without him. 

“It is not fair!” I exclaimed to the darkness. “I am older than him. Was I nothing in those years when he had not been born yet?”

It was not too late. If Artanis had cured herself from wanting him, I could do it too. Couldn’t I? What she was capable of, and what I could, were different things. She was not a cultural oddity; I was. 

Even before he could walk or talk, my greatest pleasures involved carrying him around and singing to him. Later, he had followed me around our grandfather’s home, a silent shadow merging with my own. I had always taken his presence in my life for granted. His courting of Artanis had been a blow; I thrived on his support and praise. To see him lavishing his time on someone else was not pleasing at all. But they had separated and I had been relieved. 

Then had happened Thangorodrim and its unpleasant aftermath. To this day, I wonder if it was Manwe or Melkor who induced that foul craving in me. It had destroyed my cousin. I would have gone the same way, if not for Macalaurë. 

I should not rue his marriage. I had driven him to it, after all. But right now, I was in such a state of self-sympathy that I could not help picturing myself as a long-suffering victim. 

“May I come in?” he asked.

The concern in his voice was ample to elicit an overwrought sigh from me. I lost track of the long list of grievances I had been nursing until that moment. All I could think of was that he had come. He needn’t have, after all. But he had. If I had been cursed with less pride, I would have fallen prostrate at his feet and implored him to walk over me. 

“You must eat to keep body and soul together,” he said briskly, sitting on the coverlet beside me. “Shall I send for something?”

I shook my head quietly and looked up, wondering why I feared so when I had not quailed even before Melkor or Mandos. Macalaurë’s eyes were black, a calm ocean. They attained that colour only when he was deeply affected by something. The last time I had seen that tint of black, he had been shouting at me after our brothers’ death in Menegroth. 

Excruciatingly sensitive, trembling fingers came to whisper a ghosting caress over my jaw and my pride broke, as I had known it would.

“Please.” I would have done anything he cared to ask. 

But he did not ask. That must have been one of the very, many reasons why I loved him so. He drew me into his arms and remained blessedly silent as I devolved into a series of shudders, each wracking my poor body worse than the previous one. I allowed myself the liberty of placing my hand on his chest, to feel the steady reassurance of his heart. If he opposed the touch, he would have to remove it himself. I clung like a limpet, straining against him so badly that he was compelled to brush his hands over my spine in an effort to calm me.

“Shall not stop touching you,” I murmured breathlessly. “Cannot.”

“Then don’t,” he said simply.

“Bless you! I am so sorry that I--” There, I had finally said it. And guilt still ate me alive. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Don’t say anything, if you don’t wish to,” he said kindly. 

I had never truly deserved him. But one of the many lessons which life had taught me was that few of us get what we deserve.

We remained thus, for long, silent moments. I was shaking like a leaf. If not for his ensconcing arms, I would have fallen apart to pieces. 

Finally, he took my hand in his own and began rubbing my numb, wooden fingers concernedly. 

“You are too cold,” he said. “Let me see to the fire.”

To voice it would have been impossible. But I made my entreaty clear by clinging to him stubbornly. The peculiar scent of him, the hard nest his body offered, the warm breath that caressed my cheek, I would be rather damned than letting him go. 

“You are freezing.” 

A tone of pleading had crept into those words. Like any adolescent lover, I revelled in the concern so evident in his beloved voice. That he was pained proved that he cared. 

But he had set aside his pride. It was harder for him than it was for me; he had never lain down his pride even before our father. I bridged the divide, saying simply, “Warm me.”

Trust is a strange thing. I would not have dared to make myself so vulnerable if he hadn’t had my trust. I trusted him with all that was. I would cheerfully walk blindfolded into Angband if he asked me to. 

He pushed me down onto the coverlet and bore down upon me, his lips burning as they assaulted mine. His kisses were hard and brutal, most drawing blood. By nature, he was a sensitive soul. Coarse lovemaking, according to him, was for the savages. That he saw it fit to unleash his fury on me in such a manner spoke volumes about how deeply I had wounded him. 

When his hands came to rip my robes apart, I gained sense enough to gasp, “Don’t! It is one of my best ones.”

He raised his eyebrows in so familiar a manner that I burst out laughing. Mirth lit his eyes quietly before it was replaced by decision. He moved off me and rested his back against a bedpost, staring at me in an assessing manner.

I stopped laughing, fear rising in me dark and cold. He must have read me correctly, because he shook his head saying, “I need a moment. I am burning for you.”

“Have you ever given a thought to that I might be always burning for you?” I asked in a hushed voice. 

His lips quirked in that sincere smile I delighted to bring about. If the only task of my existence was to amuse him enough to make him smile thus, I would have gladly accepted the commission. 

“With you, it is very difficult to tell,” he whispered as he bent over me and began unlacing my robes. “You are too good a diplomat.”

I felt infinitely warmer on hearing his praise. It had been always like that. His opinion mattered the world to me.

When he finally had me unclad, he sat back and raked his eyes over me, a pinched expression coming to settle on his aristocratic features. It was not lack of desire, I told myself; it was simply concern over my failing health. One of my legs had ventured its way to the folds of his robe. The contrast of my pale skin against his black garment sent a delicious frisson down my spine.

Removing his robe despite my meaningful look, he said quietly, “I have to meet the couriers at dawn and it wouldn’t do to spoil the robe.”

I sulked for a fraction of a moment, which was the time he took to launch himself at me. Then I knew nothing but his hot lips and warm hands. He had not been lying when he said that he burned. When his mouth began tormenting my loins, I broke down into pitiful moans. Since we had to be discreet, he would usually bring me to release very fast. Apparently, I shout too much. But that day, he continued his ministrations despite my pleading. I felt my muscles tightening as my body reached the brink of cataclysm. I brought my fingers to his hair and tugged desperately, no longer able to even think of speaking. 

He stopped abruptly and I fell back into the puddle of my sweat, staring at him incredulously. He bent over and encased me within his limbs, so that we were face to face. I was still panting heavily, my body shuddering in the aftermath of denied consummation. He kissed me, sharing my essence that still stained his mouth. I tried to get a hold on his sweat-slicked body, but failed miserably, for my fingers were trembling like leaves on the wind. 

I had not realized the significance of the position until something brushed my loins. I sat up abruptly, desire and incoherence fleeing in that instant. His features were drawn in concentration as he sought to slide over me. 

“No,” I hissed and pushed him away. “Not like that.”

“Russandol,” he began, confusion marring his face. “You needn’t do anything. I can-”

“I cannot countenance the act.” I willed him to understand my panic. “Please, Macalaurë. I cannot.”

“But you do it!” He sat up, eyes flashing in denial. “Then why can’t you have me?”

“Because-”, I raked my fingers through my dishevelled hair, trying to find words that would put my fears across. 

“Later.” He rolled his eyes. “I feel uncomfortable speaking in this state.” He jabbed a finger at his loins meaningfully. 

It was not often that anyone could embarrass me with anything physical. I had seen and experienced most of it, after all. But something in his extremely boneless manner of leaning against the bedpost, his legs drawn up and spread, his chest shining with sweat, and his fingers playing with his desire nearly threatened to make me turn red. 

The set jaw told me that he would not have me that day. He was our father’s son. Until I had satisfied his curiosity about my depraved tendencies, I would probably lose that intimacy. 

“May I?” I knelt before him and brought my lips to his taut abdomen.

A sharp inhalation was his reply. I steeled myself to continue. It was an act I had no inclination for. In fact, I had never done it voluntarily before. But the situation called for desperate measures. 

“Stand up,” I breathed, drawing circles about his quivering navel with my tongue. 

He was shaking when he complied. Heat burgeoned in my blood as I saw the muscles tightening in his thighs. I brought my lips to his loins, bracing myself against his frame. When he began groaning and writhing in an effort to steer himself to climax, I muttered a grateful prayer to whatever deity had watched over me then. I had thought that I would have to stop midway, for so frightened was I. When spasms took him, he firmly pushed me away back onto the bed. 

Glazed, I watched as he fell unceremoniously, panting and shuddering. Until that day, I had never truly seen after release. A strange feeling stirred in me and I found myself gently coaxing him to me. He sighed tremulously and embraced me, his head on my shoulder. I held him even after he had recovered, feeling more content than I had ever before felt in my life.

“You are a veritable book of secrets,” he whispered, the words laced with affectionate teasing.

I let my fingers play in his hair before asking, “Why did you push me away?”

He snorted and leant back to meet my eyes, his dark ones sparkling so brightly that I knew then they were the last sight I wanted to see before death. 

“You are a bundle of eccentricities,” he said languidly, letting a long index finger run along a white line left as a legacy of Nírnaeth Arnoediad on my chest. “I pride myself on knowing them all. I am pleasantly shocked that you put aside your dislike to embark on such an act.”

“Only for you,” I said truthfully as he plopped down onto the coverlet and dragged me with him. 

“Tell me then,” he yawned, looking the perfect picture of spoilt arrogance. “Confess your darkest secrets.”

“There are none that you already don’t know. I am mad, insecure and incredibly stupid.” 

He chucked before telling me, “Findaráto was the maddest. Do you know that he had a fetish for men with long toes? Apparently, both Elu Thingol and Ecthelion were endowed with long toes.”

I shuddered before imploring him, “I shall not ask how you know such things. I shall also overlook the obvious fact that you have long toes. But don’t tell me more.”

“While I must concede that you are stupid, incredibly so at times, I can put up with it,” he said, giving a long-suffering sigh.

“And?” I turned to face him, wondering however I survived being without him for so many years on Himring.

His expression turned intensely solemn as he caressed my jaw and whispered, “Only pride kept me sane and alive all those years. The better part of my life was spent loathing myself for wanting something so strictly forbidden by the laws.”

“But you know that laws have no hold over hearts,” I said quietly.

“I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for that line,” he laughed, a weary sound that I wanted to never hear again.

“You needn’t be grateful to me,” I kissed his brow, “for anything at all. I, on the other hand...” 

He looked across at me expectantly and I fell silent like the coward I was. I gathered my decidedly paltry courage before beginning, “I cannot join with you in that manner. If there is a life beyond this one, when we are made anew, I will beg you to allow me that pleasure.”

“I feared all this,” he waved his hand over us, “because we are from the same womb. But for your sake, I gave up my fear.”

“You are braver than I,” I said simply. I continued before my courage ran out, “I cannot be more than what I am, Macalaurë. But what I am, it is all yours, if you want me. I am sorry for what I said about your wife. She is a fine woman and deserves you. I would willingly let you renew what you had with her...only, I cannot bear to witness it.”

“Shut up,” he said gently. “You don’t know what a wretched thing unrequited regard can be. As long as I live, I swear you shall not know it.” 

“Artanis,” I began brokenly, too taken aback by his statement to respond to that. 

“I shall write an ode for you,” he laughed. “Will that suffice?”

“It shall be an adequate compensation.” 

“I wonder if Elros had success,” he yawned. 

As he drifted into his well-earned dreams, I could only tell myself that I would admit the truth to him some day soon.

 

 

I stared at the little piece of parchment that had turned up in my correspondence. I had recognized Elros’s hand. Wondering what prank required him to write a letter, I opened it absently. 

 

Dear Russandol,  
I find that my heart beats for you, I love you and I wish to claim you,  
Hoping that you would cooperate,  
Elros Earendillion.

 

To say that I was stunned would be a massive understatement. Wasn’t there a limit to his pranks?

“What is it?” Macalaurë asked me, as he looked up from a letter he was writing to Artanis.

“I need some fresh air,” I muttered and fled the chamber, despite his protests. I rushed to the words and talked to myself for several long moments before gathering my composure and writing down my reply.

Elros was dancing with the cook’s daughter in the courtyard. He waved to me merrily and beckoned me forth. I glowered at him before striding down the steps and walking to his side.

“Yes?” he asked cheerfully.

I did not trust myself with a reply. I settled for shoving the letter into his hand and walking away. 

 

 

That evening, he sought me alone and said solemnly, “I meant no disrespect.”

I rubbed my temples before saying wearily, “Let it drop. It was a cruel jest.”

“It was no jest.” He came to my side and brought his hand to his heart. “I swear it was not. I came to tell you that Ada will never know. I love him too much to ever hurt him by trying to claim what is his.”

He knew. I weighed my options before saying quietly, “Don’t tell Elrond.”

The frank, charming smile he gave made me exhale in relief. He winked jovially before leaving me to my thoughts. 

 

 

Elros was seated beside me, forcing me to drink from the cup he held to my lips. I could taste lemon, something Artanis had always flavoured her preparations with.

“She wanted to see you,” he said.

“I don’t want her to be upset,” I croaked. “I am in no fit condition to be seen.”

He laughed, his temperament so high-spirited that even the greatest tragedy could not oppress his exuberance. I was grateful for his company, having been sorely tried by Macalaurë’s sarcasm for the past few weeks. 

“You wanted to tell me something?” he asked me. 

“Yes.” I pushed away the cup and concentrated on his quaint, beloved features. He reminded me of Turkáno so. “That is why I sent Macalaurë away.”

“I cannot persuade him to join me after...” he cleared his throat and looked away.

“It was not about that,” I said hastily. The imminent future was not something I wanted to dwell upon. I was more concerned about Elros, Elrond, Telpë, Ereinion and Artanis. And there were the heirs to our house, Macalaurë’s children. 

“Tell me.” He wrapped his fine, leather cloak about my shivering frame and saw to the dying fire.

“I want you to swear an oath,” I said quietly. To his credit, he did not flinch. But he turned to face me and waited for my next words. 

“An oath to your brother.” I halted, trying to find words to couch my desperate idea in. “He will be condemned to our doom, you know that.”

Pain marred his features and he nodded quickly. I hurried on. “The blood of Finwë now flows in both Eldar and Edain. Generations will fade, and our bloodlines shall wane. Swear an oath that you shall come to your brother’s need if he ever calls.”

“I needn’t swear an oath,” he said gravely. “It is a tenet of my existence.”

“I am grateful.”

“What deal are you going to propose to the Valar?” he asked me gently, his eyes dark with worry. “I know you are contemplating one.”

“I don’t think it shall succeed,” I admitted. “But I beg you, swear the oath.” 

“The blood of Finwë shall be between me and you, and between my scions and yours, forever.” He brought his dagger to his wrist and made a cut. Then he brought the knife to my hand and drew blood. I sighed in relief as he brought our hands together and sealed the blood oath. “My scions shall come if the Eldar of our blood call, unto death and beyond.”

“It is a dangerous gambit,” I said quietly. “I shall try my best not to draw deep.”

“My lord,” he said with a wistful smile. “Do what you need to.”

 

 

“He loved the light. He craved the light.” She spoke in a whisper as memories haloed her. “I would do this for him. I would bring the light into the darkness beyond the Door of the Night.”

“If I claim the jewel and willingly embrace my death, thus carrying its light to the void where I shall be condemned to,” my voice remained as calm despite the horror I felt, “then what shall you grant us?”

It was my only chance. I gulped and took it. Would she consent to my desperate deal? She met my eyes bravely, her form shining with the love that she bore for the fallen Vala condemned to the Void. He had caused me great grief; but seeing her love, I forgave him all. She did not speak, but her gratitude for my forgiveness flooded my mind and I sighed. What I had to pay was nothing compared to what she had granted. 

“Thus be it,” I said quietly as I bent to press my lips to her hand.

 

Postscript:

 

Dearest Macalaurë,

I am not a wordsmith; nor am I a bard. But I write this in the hope that someday it would serve a purpose. I shall hand this to Eönwë, while you are standing guard outside the wretched camp as we perform the final, depraved act. Our mother shall wait for you across the sea; and she shall pass this letter to you. You shall know what to do. I wish I could spare you. 

Only at this juncture do I have the courage to tell you what you are to me. The cowardice was not because I feared judgement. I believe firmly that the laws of the Gods cannot rule the passions of our hearts. I feared to make myself vulnerable when I had another dawn to look forward to.

I love you more than I love my own soul and it shall never suffice.

I fear nothing, now that I have admitted this to you. It matters not how straight the gate, how charged with punishment the scroll. I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul. 

In life and beyond, I shall always remain yours.

 

 

Maglor Fëanorion read the hastily jotted down lines for what was undoubtedly not the first time. The parchment had given way to tears and time, a sorry spectacle it made in the harsh sunlight now. 

“Macalaurë.” A woman came to stand beside him, taking his hands in hers. He met the wise brown eyes of his mother, wanting to do nothing more than tell her about the unfairness of it all. But even words were denied him. 

She was his mother; she did not need words to understand his grief. He fell into her embrace, crumpling the parchment in his fingers. 

“He loved...loves you deeply,” she whispered, trying to soothe the trembling frame of the last fruit of her loins. “He lives on, in our hearts and in the stars.”

She had always considered him the strongest of her sons. But to see the silent sobs wracking him came as no surprise. That he could not even vent his grief tore her heart. She cried for him, shedding the tears that he was forbidden to. 

Gulls flew above them, heralding a grey ship from the east. Maglor met his mother’s eyes, imploring her to understand. She traced his dear features with trembling fingers before nodding and whispering, “Do what you must.”

 

 

References:

Melkor and Varda – The Truth Behind The Stars.  
Maedhros’s deal with Varda – The Journal of Maglor, Chapter 11.  
Maglor and Galadriel – The Experiment, The Journal of Fingolfin.  
Maedhros and Fingon – The Chalice.  
Elros’s love letter – The Song of Sunset, the 2nd age, Chapter 30.  
Eönwë and Nerdanel – Akin To Love.  
Finrod and Elu Thingol – The Emissary.  
The ship from the East – The Heralds of Dusk, Chapter 2. 

 

“The blood of Finwë shall be between me and you, and between my scions and yours, forever.”

“The Lord shall be between me and you, and between my offspring and your offspring, forever.” – Book of Samuel, Chapter 20. Since my characters are heretically inclined, I modified it somewhat.

“It matters not how straight the gate, how charged with punishment the scroll. I am the Master of my fate. I am the Captain of my soul." – Invictus, William Earnest Henley.


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